feed the beast within
by Maple Fay
Summary: "You have no idea what he's going to do next. And from what little I know of your habits in such times, I believe one overdose isn't going to cut it." She stands up, running her palms down the soft fabric of her dress to smoothen out the wrinkles. "Why are you here, then? Ran out of dealers your illustrious brother doesn't know about?" - TAB spoilers, third in my Adlock series.


_A/N: It seems that I start every other year by publishing an Adlock story. Should I be worried and/or ashamed?_

 _This story follows_ The Games We Play _and_ Windmills Of Your Mind _, so I kindly suggest you read those two first before delving into it. It's also heavily inspired by_ The Abominable Bride _, so - beware, here be spoilers._

 _Feedback is love, and nourishes my soul. Thank you for your time and patience._

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 **Chapter 1.**

She doesn't ask if anything's the matter, or how he knew she would be here—that would be offensive to both of them. Instead, she rolls her eyes, pushing past him to put her key in the lock. "You could have texted. I would have put on something nice."

"That's not necessary."

"I choose to take it as a compliment."

"It was intended as such."

She pushes the door open, but doesn't step through it, turning to fully face him for the first time this evening; arms folded across her chest, she leans one shoulder against the door jamb. "Alright. Let's have it."

He moves uncomfortably, wanting to get inside already, where there's no questioning eyes of old ladies watching them as they walk past with their ridiculous tiny dogs on leashes, probably wondering what a 'nice girl' such as Irene is doing with a 'bum' such as himself. "Can we at least—"

"No. We can't. I thought we've established the ground rules ages ago, and yet: here you are. I need to know why, before I let you take another step."

"I—require your unique expertise."

"'Require.' Such as awfully cold word, wouldn't you agree?"

"Look, there's no time to play with semantics—"

"On the contrary. I believe that words play a very important role in grounding us in ourselves, and giving shape to our dreams, our fears, our desires." She raises her chin, her eyes cold and focused. "Therefore, I encourage you to put your wishes into more fitting ones, and give them proper shape."

"I _need_ you expertise."

"So close, but not quite."

"I need _you_. Irene."

"So the gist of the case is: you lied to them."

He doesn't answer, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the half-empty teacup sitting on his knee.

"You have no idea what he's going to do next. And from what little I know of your habits in such times, I believe one overdose isn't going to cut it." She stands up, running her palms down the soft fabric of her dress to smoothen out the wrinkles. "Why are you here, then? Ran out of dealers your illustrious brother doesn't know about?"

"You know it's not about that."

"No?" she feigns surprise, and steps in closer, sitting on the arm of his chair. "Is it because of the female element involved in the case? Did it put you off your game?"

He grits his teeth, but doesn't protest against her pulling his head back and sifting his hair through her fingers; studies show that a human being needs to be touched by another member of the species at least eight times a day, in twenty-seconds intervals, in order for their body's chemistry to be properly balanced. Whenever he meets her, he makes sure to get his fix for the foreseeable future: even if it means baring his throat like a royal mutt in front of the alpha dog. "As a matter of fact, it didn't. But it did show me where the heft of my problems was located. I simply took the most logical path to lead me out of the labyrinth."

"Enlighten me."

He opens his eyes—when did he close them, anyway?—and looks up at _her_ throat, bared before _him_ : they always balance each other, and it's never unwilling, never accidental. "We're not done. I don't think we ever will be. Most of the time, I can put you away in a safe place in my mind, and concentrate on other matters—whatever's the most pressing case at a given time. But not now. For whatever reason, Moriarty's so-called return has made me wary. And I know I'm making myself vulnerable by admitting this in the first place, but the facts are clear and simple: if I'm to uncover the mystery behind this case, I need you to stay close to me. Not to get me drugs—to _monitor_ me as I take them. To provide… insight. I can ask neither John nor Mycroft for help, not this time."

"So you're willing to ask for a _criminal_ 's help instead?"

He cannot blame here for the bitterness in her voice, nor does he intend to do so. He'd hurt her, consciously and intentionally, and now it's time to pay the price—in his own humiliation. "I killed a man, Irene. And I've been seen. They almost shipped me away, out of the country, but then…"

"Then dear Jim's message started to play out on every available electronic device in Britain. Yes, I know. This doesn't make us even, Sherlock. We _are_ the same—but not because of our status in the face of law."

The way she speaks this last word—he could almost mistake it for a different one. He puts it down to the drug-induced haze, cotton wool around his brain. He allows his eyelids to flutter and close, swallows and feels Irene's fingers slide to gently grasp his throat, fingertips biting into his Adam's apple. Never forget how dangerous she can be, his brain screams out a warning.

"I cannot let him go," he admits slowly, weighting out the words. "I keep thinking about him. Looking back over my shoulder, expecting to find him there, laughing at my idiocy. Mocking. Challenging."

"Should I be jealous?" Her other hand continues stroking his hair, a soft, hypnotic touch. He smirks acidly, raises an eyebrow without opening his eyes.

"Don't be absurd. _I_ have more reasons to be jealous."

"Because I knew him better?"

"Because _he_ knew _you_ the way I never will."

"Is that a bad thing?"

He looks up into her face, pale and impassive, with only a hint of make-up. "I don't know yet."

"How do you want to do it, then?"

He tells her, and she laughs, bitterly. "You cannot be serious."

"There's no other way, Irene."

She knows he's right, of course she does—but it doesn't stop her from arguing her case. "I'm sure Mr. Holmes the Elder would find a way to send me straight down to the Tower."

"Now you're really talking nonsense."

" _I'm_ talking nonsense? Was _I_ the one to turn up out of the blue on a doorstep I wasn't even supposed to know, high as a kite and demanding to be given all imaginable help and resources? And why? Because of a crush on a dead person you're—"

"Will you help me, though?"

She purses her lips and lights up a cigarette; Sherlock licks his lips to taste the faintest hint of watermelon in the air. "I think that's a moot question. Don't you?"

 **TBC…**


End file.
